The Matter of the Duct Tape Tuxedo

by Steve Levi

Noonan was about to say something but did not. Weasel did. “We are investigating a matter for the Department of Homeland Security. If you doubt us, feel free to contact Commissioner Lizzard at the Sandersonville Police Department.”

  “I’ll take you at your word,” Butterfield said to Harriet. “Does he go too?” He said pointing at Noonan.

  “Absolutely,” said Harriet. “He’s part of our investigating team.”

  Butterfield rose to get one of his boats ready. When he left the room Noonan said to Harriet. “Part of our investigating team. That was rich.”

  “So’s he,” snapped Harriet. “He isn’t wearing a wedding ring. I’m not wearing a wedding ring. You and Weasel are going to be doing the investigating and I’ll do the interrogating.”

  “A man with a boat,” said Weasel slyly. “What more could you ask for on the Outer Banks?”

  “A friend who has cabin on the shore of Pamlico Sound,” Harriet retorted. “Which you have. And remember, I’m the one who got us out of the office today.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told,” John Butterfield told Noonan and Weasel. “My father and I run a small operation and this fish thing has gotten out of hand.” Butterfield pointed at his father talking to Harriet at the stern of the craft. “We take parties out after local fish, Red Drum, Wahoo. When that, that . . .”

  “Coelacanth,” added Weasel.

  “Yeah, that thing,” said Butterfield. “It was a fish we had never seen before.”

  “A lot of people haven’t,” said Noonan. “Did you pull it off a hook?”

  “No. It was already on board when I saw it. That’s why I doubt we caught it. Our customers are city folk, the kind who don’t like baiting hooks. So I don’t think it was caught in the water. I think it was brought onto the boat.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Weasel thought like a cop. “Catching a fish like that would generate a lot of publicity for your business.”

  “You’d think so,” the young man replied. “But it has been just the opposite. Sure, it’s brought out the press but no one else. Everyone knows that, that,”

  “Coelacanth,” Weasel added.

  “Yeah, whatever. We haven’t seen an uptick of reservations. Everyone knows it’s a phony. We look bad even though we haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Who actually caught the fish?” Noonan asked.

  “A fine question, Captain. It’s Captain isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “A fine question. There were three people in the party. Out of New York. At least they said they were out of New York. They paid cash so we don’t have a credit card receipt. They came aboard and fished all day. Just as we were about to return, they caught the fish.”

  “Or said they caught the fish.”

  “Yes.”

  “How far out were you?”

  “Miles. We were nowhere near shore.”

  “How deep was the water there?”

  “Very.”

  “That’s quite an answer.”

  “Captain, we know where the fishing grounds are and get there with GPS. Our job is to keep the boat steady while our clients fish. I’m sure I knew how deep it was once but over the years I have forgotten that tidbit. My father and I use GPS to get here and GPS to get back. As long as the clients catch fish, we’re happy. They’re happy and tell their friends about us. It was great until that . . .”

  “Coelacanth” Weasel cut in again.

  “. . .turned up.”

  “Why didn’t they take the fish with them when they left?” Noonan asked.

  “Good question. My answer: they didn’t. They took their gear into the parking lot, loaded up a car and left. Poof. Gone. Never came back for the fish.”

  “What do you usually do with fish leftover on a trip?” Noonan was interested.

  “Most of the time we give them to charity. Legally I suppose we could take them home and eat them but we don’t want anyone ever saying we were overfishing for our own benefit.”

  “So it’s not unusual for fish to be left onboard?”

  “It’s rare. We usually clean the fish and clients take the fillets home. Very few clients leave fish onboard.”

  “How did you know it was a coelacanth?”

  “We didn’t. It was a strange fish so we showed it to a Park Ranger. He said it was an extinct fish and called the cops. That’s you guys, right?”

  “Well,” Weasel squirmed, “we are cops, yes. But we did not get the call. Someone else did. That’s why the press showed up.”

  “You guys didn’t call the press?”

  “We don’t do things like that,” said Noonan. “What was the name of the Park Ranger you spoke with?

  “I don’t know. The guy who was there at the time. He took the fish and that was the last we saw of it.”

  Noonan was silent for a moment. Then he looked over the side of the boat and turned around. “How many clients can you take at a time?”

  “Up to nine but we rarely have that many. Usually six.”

  “All in the same group?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes we have three individuals and two groups of three. Or six individuals. Depends.”

  “These three people from New York. Did they rent the whole boat?”

  “Yeah. And then said the others had backed out. They paid for the whole boat anyway.”“In cash?”

  “In cash.”

  Noonan scratched his head. “How’s business been this year?”

  “Good. It has not been a bad year. So if you are thinking that the, the,”

  “Coelacanth” Weasel cut in again.

  “Right. If you think the fish was a publicity stunt, you’re wrong. We’ve got all the business we can handle. So has everyone else up and down the coast. Publicity is nice but we don’t want clients who go out expecting to catch an extinct fish. And” he stopped for a moment and coughed, “I thought something that was extinct had been long dead. How can you catch something that’s been dead for millions of years alive?”

  “That,” said Weasel, “is a very good question.

  Harriet stayed on the boat “investigating” while Noonan and Weasel headed for the National Park. It was still a terrible day to be away from the office and the two men had committed an unforgiveable sin by forgetting to turn their cell phones on. Weasel claimed his cell phone battery was low; Noonan just stated his electronic beast was “sleeping and it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  The story at the National Park was as bureaucratic as a sunrise. The Ranger in charge knew what he was looking at and turned “the specimen” which Noonan and Weasel called “a fish” over to the National Park biologist. The biologist put the fish in cold storage and called Homeland Security.

  “Why,” asked Weasel before Noonan could ask the same question, “would you call Homeland Security?”

  The biologist rolled his eyes and pointed to a BE PREPARED! Homeland Security poster on the wall. “Because that’s what my instructions are. See, here, Number 12. If anything out of ordinary happens I have to call Homeland Security in Washington D. C.”

  “So you called D. C.”

  “And what happened?”

  “A guy named Lizard showed up.”

  “Lizzard?” Noonan said accenting the second “z.”

  “Probably the same guy. I told him what it was and he took off with it. I haven’t seen it since.”

  “Do you see a lot of coelacanth around here?” asked Weasel with a straight face.

  “Officer,” said the biologist clearly looking for a name tag, “we never see coelacanth around here. Off the coast of Madagascar, yes, but that’s a long way from here. Now, this one’s an import. Why I cannot tell you.”

  “Let’s try this from another angle,” Noonan said. “Why would someone say they caught a coelacanth in these waters?”

  “I have no idea,” said the biologist. “If you know what a coelacanth is you know this fish was a plant. If you don’t know what a coelacanth is you would probably car
e less. These are fishing waters, not scientific research waters.” He took a breath. “And if you think it was done as a publicity stunt by some of the fishing boats, forget it. It’s a good year. They don’t need any publicity.”

  “So you’re stuck for an answer?”

  “Call Lizzard. He said he had a crackerjack detective in Sandersonville. Why not ask him?”

  Weasel did not crack a smile.

  Noonan and Weasel struggled to make it back to Sandersonville by close of business – and failed. Weasel dropped Noonan off at the station to retrieve his car and, as it was Friday, Weasel decided to keep the city car for the weekend because he did not want to check the car in after office hours and run up overtime on the garage staff. It was going to be another terrible, Saturday, and Sunday was not going to be any better so Weasel swore he would take good care of the car before he turned it in on Monday. Harriet had declined a ride back to the office and stated she would “do just fine” so they left her at Butterfield Deep Sea Excursions.

  As it turned out, both Saturday and Sunday were miserable days for Noonan. In addition to weed plucking, dirt moving, gravel spreading and dog poop picking upping he suffered the indignity of chauffeuring the twins to a skating party and a movie while his wife waited at home with spade and bucket in hand. Then she complained as to how hard supervising was.

  It was not until Sunday night that Noonan was able to turn on the internet and do research on coelacanth. He learned absolutely nothing he did not know. But he did pick up a new term, “passive drift feeders” which meant the fish just went where the current took it and ate what came floating by, the antediluvian equivalent of “going with the flow.” Its meat was not tasty and its oil unusable. The only people who wanted the species were fish biologists.

  So why fake the catching of a Madagascar fish off the coast of North Carolina?

  That was such a good question Noonan did not have answer.

  Noonan was not caught by surprise when Commissioner Lizzard came into his office at the crack of dawn – 10 a. m. for Lizzard because that was the crack of his dawn – and demanded to know why Noonan’s cell phone had been turned off all weekend. A fake-surprised Noonan reached for his phone and saw its power was extinct. He showed the phone to Lizzard who pointed to the power cord on Noonan’s desk.

  “You missed my calls,” he snapped.

  “If I had known you were calling I’d have answered,” Noonan replied with a hundred mile stare.

  “Well?” Lizzard asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “The coelacanth.”

  “Ah, yes, the coelacanth. You picked it up from the biologist at the National Park.”

  “Correct.”

  “And it is downstairs in unclaimed property.”

  “Negative. It is on its way to Washington D. C. There is a lot of interest in that fish.”

  “Why? It’s obviously a fake.”

  “Who knows? It could be part of a plot.”

  “Really? What kind of a plot?”

  “Well, not really a plot as in plot-plot. But there has been a lot of talk about global warming and this coelacanth could be proof.”

  “That the oceans are warming up? We don’t need proof. It’s happening.”

  “The coelacanth is more proof positive. An African fish showing up off the coast of North Carolina. A fish from a hot continent showing on a hot coast.”

  “Commissioner, that fish was a plant. Someone wanted to generate publicity for . . .” and the scales fell from his eyes.

  “Hardly,” continued Lizzard. “Why I hear a salt-water crocodiles turned up down the coast from Marvin City. They are usually only found in hot climates like Egypt. Why would they show up here?”

  “Marvin City,” mused Noonan. “That’s not in our county.”

  “Who knows? The water is warm enough the salt water crocodiles could be headed this way.”

  “Really? Let me guess, Homeland Security has a watch out for salt water crocodiles.”

  “Anything suspicious, out of the ordinary. When it turns up, we investigate.”

  “Who’s the we that’s going to be investigating these out of the ordinary circumstances?”

  “Now that the coelacanth has turned up in this county and the salt water crocodiles further south, I am going to be requesting more money from Homeland Security for the two adjoining counties.”

  “But my report. . .” Noonan did not get a chance to finish.

  “Oh, you don’t have to produce a report, Captain. I’ve already done it. We discovered a strange species of fish in our waters which we sent on to Washington D. C.”

  “You didn’t put my name on the report did you?”

  “Oh no,” Lizzard said as he gave a look of horror. “This is way above your pay grade.”

  Noonan was relieved. “Let me guess, Homeland Security was handed a dead salt water crocodile which was found down the coast below Marvin City.”

  “It did. How’d you guess?”

  “I’m psychic.

  THE MATTER OF THE REVERSE DINNER BELL

  Captain Heinz Noonan, the “Bearded Holmes” of the Sandersonville Police Department, was in the process of doing his annual office personnel performance reports and was stumped when he came upon that of Lt. George Weasel. He was stumped not because Weasel’s performance had been below standard – which it had not been – but because the man’s name had changed since the previous year. There was a new label over the name and it read “Billy-Bob George Handsome Weasel.”

  “Handsome?” Noonan said softly.

  “Right!” yelled Harriet from across her desk across the room. “You’ll love the story.”

  “How do you know what I am looking at?” Noonan snapped as he looked up.

  “P-l-e-a-s-e! You said Handsome. We all,” she pointed around the room to a half-dozen smiling faces, “know what you are reading. Handsome George. Who knew?”

  “Why’d he change his name?”

  “Why not ask him,” Harriet said and pointed to Billy-Bob George Handsome Weasel as he lumbered like a hippopotamus toward Noonan’s desk.

  Noonan held up the file as if to say “And?” as Billy-Bob George Handsome Weasel sat down.

  “It’s a short story,” he said.

  “I’ve got time for a novel,” snapped Noonan and handed him the file.

  “My uncle, Handsome Weasel, left me a small cabin on Pamlico Sound. I had to claim it by using my full legal name. The minute that happened I had to change all names on all documents to Billy-Bob George Handsome Weasel. See,” he said as he pulled out his wallet and showed Noonan his new driver’s license, “I’m officially and legally Billy-Bob George Handsome Weasel on all my documents.” He tapped his Annual Performance file. “Including that one.”

  “How efficient of you,” said Noonan with half a grin. “What do we call you around here?”

  “How about lt.” He was stone-faced. “Until I make captain and then you-all can call me captain.”

  “Or corporal if you backslide.”

  “If I back slide it will be to a cabin on the shore of Pamlico Sound.” He paused for a moment and then said, “Now that I’m here I’d like to discuss a difficulty that came up.”

  “Does it involve getting rid of a handsome ghost in your cabin on the shore of Pamlico Sound?” Noonan chuckled at his own pun.

  “Partially. It involves crocodiles, ship bells and Russian rats.”

  “Now let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Noonan was still shaking his head. “From the story that told me, you’ve got marauding salt water crocodiles from the waters of Pamlico Sound which are coming ashore on your uncle’s, that is, your property to scavenge Russian rats and your uncle has been trying to scare them away with ship’s bells on trip wires.”

  “That’s the size of it, sir.”

  “Call me Heinz.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That went well.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Never mind. I do not
want this to come as a shock to you but your story has a lot of holes, so to speak.”

  “Really?”

  “First, the only crocodiles in the United States are in zoos. Second, even if there were salt water crocodiles, they would not chase Russian rats. The rats are too fast. Crocodiles wallow in the shallows like logs and surprise animals that come to the shoreline to drink. Third, even if crocodiles did forage for Russian rats, I don’t see that a trip wire would be any good. If a crocodile hit a trip wire all the bell would do was ring. I don’t see that scaring crocodiles off – if there were crocodiles to scare off.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You want more? I think those fantasies are a good start.”

  Weasel had a comeback. “First, there are salt water crocodiles in the United States that are not in zoos. They started in the waters off Florida where they were released as pets. As there was nothing to eat them, they grew large and then started moving up the coast. Now those crocs have not made it this far north,” he paused for emphasis, “yet,” and gave another pause, “but the salt water crocodiles on Pamlico Sound are from a crocodile farm that was established during the Second World War. The military was studying the animals as part of war effort. After the war they closed down the farm.”

  “Let me guess,” postulated Noonan. “Some of the crocodiles wandered off into the yaupon bushes and were never seen again.”

  “Not never again,” said Weasel. “Just not often. There are still some out there. And they occasionally feed.”

  “On your uncle’s property.”

  “Yes. On Russian rats.”

  “Do the bells scare the crocodiles away?”

  “No. The bells are to scare the Russian rats away. When they go, the crocodiles go.”

  “Kind of a reverse dinner bell.”

  “I guess you could say that, Captain.”

  “I just did. Now, is there a reason you are telling me this tall tale?”

  “It’s not a tall tale, sir. It’s the root a very old mystery on Tabor Island.”

  “I’ve never heard of Tabor Island.”

  “Most people have not. It’s a mythical island.”

  Noonan looked across his desk over his glasses at Lt. Weasel and then at Harriett who was rolling her eyes. Then he looked back at Weasel.